Chapter 9

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist.

For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back. The Vault. The gallery. The sculpture. Xander.

Oh God. Xander.

I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been last night. Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable.

My body ached in places I’d forgotten could ache. Pleasant soreness, the kind that came from being thoroughly used. The sheets were tangled around our legs, and I could see marks on my skin. Bruises on my hips where his fingers had gripped. A faint bite mark on my shoulder.

Evidence of what we’d done.

Multiple times.

My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely.

I needed to leave. Now. Before this became something complicated. Before he woke up and we had to have the awkward morning-after conversation.

What was this? What are we doing? Should we exchange numbers?

No. This had been exactly what I needed. One night of forgetting. Of feeling something other than misery. Of being someone other than Diana Pembroke, disgraced events manager.

But it couldn’t be more than this.

I carefully extracted myself from his arm, holding my breath when he shifted slightly. But he didn’t wake. Just rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head.

I slid out of bed as quietly as possible, my feet sinking into plush carpet. My dress was somewhere in the living room. My underwear scattered across the bedroom floor. My shoes by the bed.

I gathered my clothes quickly, moving like a thief. Which was ironic, considering what I’d been accused of.

In the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze.

I looked destroyed. Makeup smeared. Hair a tangled mess. Lips swollen. The bite mark on my shoulder visible above the neckline of Maya’s dress. And my eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep but also something else.

They looked alive.

For the first time in weeks, I looked like a person instead of a ghost.

I cleaned up as best I could with a washcloth. Fixed my hair into something approximating presentable. There was nothing I could do about the dress, wrinkled beyond redemption, or the unmistakable look of someone who’d spent the night having sex.

Maya was going to have questions.

I slipped back into the bedroom. Xander was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. For a moment, I stood watching him, this stranger who’d made me forget, who’d seen my rage and my need and matched both with his own intensity.

I should leave a note. Something. But what would I say?

Thank you for the best sex of my life?

Last night was a glorious mistake?

Please don’t call me because I can’t afford complications?

In the end, I left nothing. I grabbed my clutch from the nightstand where I’d dropped it at some point during the night. The business card he’d given me at The Vault was still inside.

I should throw it away.

I slipped it into an inner pocket instead.

The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. I let myself out quietly, closing the door with barely a click.

The elevator ride down felt eternal. I kept expecting someone to stop me, to ask what I was doing leaving a penthouse suite at seven in the morning wearing last night’s clothes. But the lobby was mostly empty. Just staff moving quietly, preparing for the day.

I walked out into the bright morning, immediately regretting the heels. My feet screamed with every step. I pulled out my phone and ordered a car, waiting on the corner like someone doing the world’s most obvious walk of shame.

The driver who picked me up was mercifully silent. I slumped in the back seat, exhaustion crashing over me now that the adrenaline of escape had faded.

What had I done?

I’d slept with a stranger. Multiple times. In ways I’d never slept with Leo in three years of being together.

And I’d liked it.

More than liked it. I’d craved it. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of losing myself in sensation instead of thought.

But it couldn’t happen again. Men like Xander Lockwood didn’t want women like me beyond a single night of entertainment. And I couldn’t afford distractions. I needed to focus on rebuilding my life, finding a job, proving I wasn’t a thief.

Last night had been an escape. A beautiful, necessary escape.

But now it was morning, and reality was waiting.

The car dropped me at Maya’s building. I climbed the three flights of stairs slowly, dreading the interrogation waiting for me.

Maya was awake, sitting on the couch with coffee and her laptop. She looked up when I walked in, and her eyes went wide.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“Diana. You look like you got hit by a sex truck.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad. We’re talking about it. Sit.” She patted the couch beside her. “Coffee first. Then details.”

I collapsed onto the couch, accepting the mug she thrust at me. The coffee was strong and hot and exactly what I needed.

“Did you at least text me like you promised?” Maya asked.

I checked my phone. Dead battery. “My phone died.”

“Diana.”

“I’m fine. I’m here. I’m alive. Nothing bad happened.”

“Except you had sex with a billionaire you met six hours ago.”

“I needed to forget for a while. He helped me forget.”

Maya studied my face. “Was it good?”

Despite everything, I felt myself smiling. “It was incredible.”

“Okay. Okay, I can work with incredible. Are you seeing him again?”

“No.”

“No? Di, the man looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And clearly the sex was good. Why not see where it goes?”

“Because I don’t have the bandwidth for complicated right now. I need to focus on finding a job. Rebuilding my reputation. Getting my life back on track.”

“Or, hear me out, you could let yourself have something good for once.”

“Good things don’t happen to me, Maya. Good things get taken away. Leo. My job. Everything.” I set down the coffee. “Last night was perfect because it was one night. No expectations. No promises. No disappointments. I’m not ruining it by trying to make it more.”

Maya looked like she wanted to argue, but she just sighed. “Fine. But for the record, I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Add it to the list.”

I showered, washing away the evidence of the night. The hot water stung the bite mark on my shoulder, and I found myself touching it gently, remembering.

Then I forced myself to stop remembering.

I needed to move forward, not backward.

After the shower, I changed into comfortable clothes. Top. Jeans. Hair in a neat bun. Makeup carefully applied to hide the exhaustion. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw Diana Pembroke, events manager.

Not Diana Pembroke, woman who’d spent the night screaming a stranger’s name.

I spent the rest of the morning on my laptop, applying to every job I could find. Event coordinator at a hotel chain. Catering manager for a corporate firm. Wedding planner assistant at a boutique agency.

By noon, I had fifteen applications submitted.

By two, I had three rejection emails.

By five, I had twelve.

Thank you for your interest, but we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.

We appreciate your application, but your qualifications don’t match our current needs.

After careful consideration, we’ve decided not to proceed with your candidacy.

The rejections all said different things, but they meant the same thing: We heard about Veridian. We don’t hire thieves.

“Nothing?” Maya asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Nothing. It’s like I’ve been blacklisted industry-wide.”

“Have you tried reaching out to former clients? Someone who knows your work?”

“And say what? ‘Hi, remember how I managed your perfect wedding? Please ignore the theft allegations and hire me?’”

Maya winced. “Okay, maybe not. What about something outside events? You have transferable skills. Project management. Client relations. Budgeting.”

“I’ve been applying to those too. Same result.”

My phone buzzed. Another rejection email. This one from a position I’d been excited about. Events director at a museum. Perfect blend of culture and logistics.

We regret to inform you…

I closed my laptop before I threw it across the room.

“I need air. I’m going for a walk.”

“Di—”

“I’ll be fine. I just need to clear my head.”

I grabbed my jacket and walked out before Maya could stop me. The afternoon was cool, autumn settling over the city. I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me through Brooklyn streets.

Former colleagues passed on the other side of the street. I recognized a woman I’d worked with on the Morrison gala, the one before everything went wrong. She saw me, and her eyes widened. Then she quickly looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen me.

The message was clear. I was tainted. Toxic. Someone to avoid.

I found myself in Prospect Park, sitting on a bench watching people jog and walk dogs and push strollers. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by scandal and shame.

My phone buzzed again. I almost didn’t check it, assuming another rejection.

But it wasn’t a rejection. It was a text from an unknown number.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

My heart stopped.

Xander.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should delete it. Block the number. Maintain the boundary I’d set this morning when I snuck out.

But I found myself typing instead. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

The response came immediately.

Xander: “I would have appreciated the chance to make you breakfast.”

Me: “I needed to get home.”

Xander: “Or you needed to run.”

The observation was too accurate, too sharp. Just like everything else about him.

Me: “It was one night. A good night. But one night.”

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Xander: “If you say so.”

Me: “I do.”

Xander: “Then I won’t bother you again. But Diana, for what it’s worth, I don’t regret last night. I hope you don’t either.”

I stared at the message. I should tell him I did regret it. Should lie and create distance and make sure this ended cleanly.

“I don’t regret it,” I typed. “But it can’t happen again.”

Xander: “Understood. Take care of yourself, Diana Pembroke.”

The conversation ended. No arguing. No trying to convince me otherwise. Just acceptance.

Which was exactly what I wanted.

So why did it feel like losing something I’d barely had a chance to hold?

I walked back to Maya’s apartment as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. My phone stayed silent. No more texts from Xander. No more rejection emails.

Just silence.

Back at the apartment, Maya had ordered Pizza. We ate while watching trashy reality TV and not talking about the fact my life was a disaster.

“Tomorrow will be better,” Maya said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

“Tomorrow I’ll keep applying. Someone will give me a chance eventually.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll figure something else out. I always do.”

But lying in Maya’s guest bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if I was lying. I’d always had a plan. Always had structure. Always knew the next step.

Now I had nothing. No job. No prospects. No path forward.

Just the memory of one perfect night when I’d forgotten to be broken.

And the business card still tucked in my clutch, a reminder of the man who’d made me feel alive.

I fell asleep thinking about gray-green eyes and the way he’d said my name like it was something precious.

Fell asleep telling myself I’d made the right choice.

Fell asleep trying to believe tomorrow would be different.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

Nothing was going to change until I changed it myself.

And I had no idea how to do something like this anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​